N7 Month Prompts
by lyricsaboutcats
Summary: A few prompts from the 2016 N7 month challenge. Contents: Zaeed knitting, a speculative MEA story, and Marab of Saronis Applications meeting Shepard.
1. Ryder, Synthesis

_(A/N: This was written before most of the information was released.)_

 _~Synthesis/Ryder~_

The Nexus arrived in the Helius system, and then the Tempest's shuttle didn't come back.

The youngest of the Ryder family, a small woman named Sara with dark hair and a gracefully sturdy figure, raced through the ship. Her boots were loud on the metal alloy of the walkway as she ran. "No, no, no," she exclaimed quietly, pushing her body against a door that wouldn't open fast enough. She gasped when it finally let her in and she almost fell, stumbling and then roughly landing against the back of a chair in the cockpit. "Where the hell is my dad?"

A salarian pilot worked the main console there, concentrating and not looking at her when his seat rocked violently against the impact. "The shuttle docked with the ship in front of us," he told her. "There are no life signs from either."

She looked up at the massive view screen. "Then why is it moving toward us?"

Neither of them knew the answer. When the Andromeda Initiative arrived at its destination, its occupants thought they were prepared for any eventuality. Each one had been thoroughly briefed and then sent into a cryostasis pod where they awoke six hundred years later to a galaxy that was quickly becoming terrifying in the sheer impossibility that it presented to them.

The ship in front of them held no life signs, traveling silently and peacefully through foreign stars.

"Wait, is that the SSV Normandy?" Sara asked incredulously.

"So it appears to be," a female turian named Vetra responded, entering the cockpit. She approached the human and stood calmly next to her as they both stared at the infamous frigate: Sara's eyes wide with astonishment and the turian's darkly incomprehensible. "And yet, it shouldn't be at all."

"More like can't be," the pilot muttered. He hailed the ghost ship anyway, because it still floated decisively toward the Tempest. "State your identity and mission parameters."

"Huh," a voice marveled curiously through scattered electronic static. "Didn't expect to hear a voice like that way out here."

Vetra's mandibles flickered outward in irritation, and she leaned over the pilot's console. "Who is this?" she asked, pressing a hand into the glow of the view screen where her fingers passed right through it.

"Jeff Moreau," the voice proclaimed.

She nodded, stepping back into a formal parade rest and straightening her back, because in the strangeness of the moment the pilot of the SSV Normandy being Jeff Moreau actually made a small amount of sense. "Your ship was lost over Alchera, flight lieutenant. What is it doing in the Helius System?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Why would I be kidding?" she snapped. "The Hero of the Citadel died in the incident."

"No, no, no. Shepard came back," Moreau said. "Cerberus rebuilt him, and he kicked the Reapers' asses."

"John Shepard was marked deceased in 2183," the Tempest's pilot responded, mostly to Vetra. He glanced back to her uneasily and added: "The Reapers were never fully proven to even exist."

Moreau snorted. "See, that's where you're wrong. He came back and fixed everything for us." Moreau's voice was growing in condescension and Sara could almost hear the smirk he sent them across the vacuum. "Shepard joined synthetics and organics, and that fixed all of our problems."

Vetra's irritation laced through her subharmonics. "How would that fix your problems? What happened?"

"Well, I got laid."

There was static again, and the sound of a struggle. "We've arrived here to scout for other races to join with us," a new voice that sounded like a quarian disclosed suddenly. "The Milky Way galaxy was liberated by the Shepherd almost instantaneously."

Sara glanced around the dim light of the small cockpit, out of place with her lower rank as a chill crept down her spine at the looming situation presented to them. Vetra's expression grew harder and more dangerous by the second, and the salarian pilot's mouth was tight with a frown as he continued to scan the Normandy and found no life signs despite the declarations of its occupants.

Sara steadied herself, her hand still on the pilot's chair. "Where is Pathfinder Alec Ryder?" she inquired loudly and without the emotion she could feel crushing against her chest. "His shuttle docked with you twenty minutes ago during an exploratory roundabout."

"He's here with us," a turian on the ghost ship replied. The sound of his voice ripped through space, corrupted into an incomprehensibly painful cadence, and on the Tempest Vetra faltered backward under a sound only she could hear.

"Shit," she muttered, holding her head and leaning heavily against a nearby console. Something horrible had screeched beneath the words, clawing through the subharmonics to escape the message. "Turn the comm off," she ordered, her voice rough.

The pilot nodded, switching it off. Data scrolled along orange screens as he finished analyzing the Normandy, reporting subtle differences in its design and occupants compared to its original layout and crew. He turned around, shifting his body awkwardly in the chair as he looked up to Vetra and Sara. "Whatever is over there isn't lying," he said quietly. "They seem to be infected with some sort of virulent and synthetic nano-biotic disease that has completely overridden their original cell structures."

Vetra's eyes flickered between the view of the SSV Normandy and Alec Ryder's daughter. "Can we help them?"

"Doubtful. They're already dead, for all intents and purposes. It seems to be infectious."

"Turn the comm back on."

"-ara, honey," an instantly recognizable voice rumbled on the comm when it sprung to life. "I'm over here now, and we need to talk. Sara?"

Sara's eyes widened. "Dad?"

"Can you fly over, or clear us to board?"

She shook her head, her breath hitching in her chest in response. Her father's voice was careful and consistent in the heavy atmosphere of the cockpit as he continued to speak to her, gently attempting to coax her over to a ship that would perhaps infect her and the rest of the crew of the Tempest with something terrible. Data flew by on the screen with colors that lingered like candlelight across her eyes, presenting statistics and explanations that flickered painfully as she read them.

Alec Ryder was also dead, for all intents and purposes.

"It's amazingly virulent. His internal systems have already degraded into machinery," the pilot said, his chair rocking once again when Sara grabbed onto it. She couldn't breathe, and so she said nothing in response.

"I am sorry," Vetra offered softly. There was little else to say.

Alec Ryder chuckled in kind tones scattered with broken electronic static. "It's going to be okay, honey. It's amazing here. The possibilities are astounding."

Vetra glanced at Sara with a sympathetic expression, because she felt that there was only one correct answer to the question she needed to ask. "Orders, Pathfinder Ryder?"

Sara bowed her head at the new title. "Destroy it," she said quietly.

There was a rumbling wail beneath her boots in response. Metal began to twist around itself on the view screen as the shots fired, ship lights blinking and then faltering into the dark as the Normandy began to break apart under the attack, and then it exploded in a flash of bright verdant light before it could infect the Andromeda galaxy with its solution.

Sara sank down to kneel on the floor, not feeling the hands that began to lift her up into a promotion she had never wanted, gently trying to comfort her as they did so. She could only see the light that lingered, bright and lovely in the stars like her father used to be.


	2. One Human:Zaeed

_~One Human: Zaeed~_

"Well," Zaeed drawled above the hum of the cargo hold. "Don't go around telling everybody."

Shepard stared up at him in the cargo hold, her eyes wide with surprise. The mercenary had placed a hand-knit scarf into her arms when she arrived that day, draping it across her forearms with a litany of obscenities that were as skillful as his handsome stockinette stitches. "This is beautiful," she said with a gasp as she clutched the soft grey wool against her chest.

He shrugged, and then placed his hands on his hips. "My mum taught me. Figure it's almost Christmas, and who knows when a shot will finally take me out."

"It's June, Zaeed."

"Yeah, near enough. That a goddamn problem?"

Shepard chuckled, and then smiled as he showed her how to wear it. Zaeed's accent was thicker when he was nervous, and he stood in front of her with a roughly stiff posture to hide his growing embarrassment. "You've got to tie the thing just so, or it falls apart," he muttered. His hands worked quickly, wrapping her neck and shoulders very carefully with his handiwork.

"Will you teach me how to do this?" she asked him when he finished.

Zaeed hesitated for a moment, and then he crossed his arms with a faint smirk.

Kelly Chambers stood by her console a few weeks later, bored as she listened to Patel and Jackson argue on the bridge about the Citadel Consort's extravagant fees and impressive hips, their voices floating throughout the CIC. She exhaled with a puff of air aimed at her forehead, idly attempting to watch her own short hair move, and then turned around to fully monitor the command deck that hummed with voices and the hushed sounds of the engines below.

"Doctor Solus?" she asked, stunned when the resident salarian scientist exited the elevator nearby.

Mordin nodded at her, and tried to smile through an excess of purl stitches. "Yeoman Chambers," he offered, polite and muffled. His armor and the entirety of his chin were hidden under the tumbling wool of a lumpy red sweater that had been knit by an obvious novice. He picked at dropped stitches with his fingers as he approached her, narrowing his eyes whenever he found a new one. "Need something?"

Kelly furrowed her eyebrows and smiled, trying to make her expression exaggerated and her voice easy to read for the alien. "Why are you wearing that?" she asked.

Mordin continued to pick, shifting his body and sinking further into the massive sweater that enveloped him, fabric gathering at the top of his boots. "Gift from Shepard," he said brightly, still muffled. He held out his arms to her and they were covered in knit snowflakes. "Human holiday! Not actually aware of any occurring this week."

"Oh... Well, there aren't," Kelly said simply, losing her practiced expression of interest, and then she turned back to her console. "Shepard didn't make me a sweater," she whispered to herself despondently.

Mordin picked, watching her. He later made his way down to the engine room where Zaeed and Shepard sat on the floor in drifting piles of yarn as they knitted.

"Christ, Solus," Zaeed said, shaking his head. "You're wearing the damn thing inside out again."

"Would like to make something," he informed the pair. He sat down next to Shepard on the floor and picked up a few needles, beginning to work immediately, and then he gave Kelly a cable knit scarf the next day.

Kelly draped it around her neck with a bright smile, elated at the gift for a holiday neither she nor Mordin were certain of. Her expression was more genuine than he had ever seen before, and so Mordin began to tell people about humans and their fondness for _dallying with ancient crafts_ , his words transforming into scuttlebutt and gossip until the knitting club in the cargo hold began to grow ever so slowly.

Zaeed glared up at Jack when she hesitated in the doorway, watching the group silently. "Come on," he told her, waving her inside. "Just sit down and don't argue."

"Fine," Jack said, leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed. "I'm gonna make a cute bikini."

A crowd of crew members eventually surrounded Zaeed and Shepard in the evenings, each one working on their own project. People collaborated, or worked alone, or just sat; always chatting and offering assistance to one another in a space that was suddenly quite crowded with voices and companionship beneath the usual hum of cold machinery.

"I am so terrible at this," Tali said, her fingers tangled in wool as she sat by the surveillance monitors.

Yarn was draped against Garrus' mandibles and filled his cowl. "That makes two of us," he replied, patting her shoulder.

Zaeed groaned, glancing over to Shepard. "Should've known you'd tell everybody."

She continued to knit steadily and with uneven stitches that held together loosely, still draped in the perfect scarf he had given her. "All I did was make a few sweaters," she insisted innocently.

"Yeah, and look what happened. Never should've taught you a damn thing."

"You like it."

"I do not."

Grunt had a red hat on his head and he stood up suddenly, silencing everyone in the small room with an abrupt roar. "I have made a hat," he informed the group solemnly. "It is my hat, and it is the color of blood and victory." The krogan sat back down with a loud thud, and purl stitches fell over his face. He grinned, because the hat was far too big and it was still only August on a planet he had never even been to.

Zaeed shook his head, stifling a chuckle that threatened to rumble throughout his chest, and almost smiled.


	3. One Salarian: Marab

_~One Salarian: Marab of Saronis Applications~_

It is unlike anything he has ever heard before.

Nasurn Ter Aegohr Shahu Kaleh Marab believes at first that the hanar are ringing small bells, only realizing when he passes by their shrine that the bioluminescent aliens are actually singing. He stops to listen, and they serenade the departed souls of a ravaged human colony into the afterlife. A drell contemplates each name and the bells ring higher, ascending into the lights of the ward to welcome each soul home to the eternal sea.

" _Drala'fa, drala'fa_ ," the drell chants gently after each name.

Marab's eyelids flutter upward as he watches in silence, and then he turns toward the shop where he works each day in Zakera Ward's twenty sixth level. A human clerk named Derek waits for him there, opening the doors with him and unpacking equipment. Marab smiles when people begin to filter in, requesting technology that is ubiquitous to life on the space station, and Saronis Applications maintains a steady stream of customers throughout the day; each one looking for discounts in the less opulent corners of the Citadel.

"Have you seen that new ramen place?" Kian asks, wandering over from the Sirta Foundation during a slow moment.

Marab blinks at her. "Is that what the new smell is?"

"Goddess, I hope not. I think that's the factory."

The day is long, and yet there is still not enough time to do everything. He can still hear the drell occasionally as he works, chanting in the space between requests and demands; a plainly decorative sound in the utilitarian space. A volus approaches the counter demanding an omni-tool and a discount, and Marab's mind settles into familiar paths of upgraded firmware and applications until the rotund creature leaves, blustering about the cost of his latest purchase.

There is a credit chit on the counter, forgotten near the catalogue interface. Marab grabs it with long fingers. He holds the metal square up to the light, and then glances at his fellow clerk in surprise. "Hey, lucky you," the human man says. "How much is on it?"

Marab shakes his head and sets it back down. "I don't know. I'm not going to keep it."

"Suit yourself." He shrugs and turns away.

The chit is tucked into a drawer, any thoughts of its value also set aside. Marab looks up, remembering to smile when more customers approach him, and begins to utter a greeting. "Welcome to -"

His voice dies away in surprise.

Marab's tone, always cheerful for the sake of professional service, takes on a lilt of genuine excitement and pleasure at the sight of the famous human he recognizes immediately. "Ah! Shepard!" he exclaims eagerly.

Lieutenant Commander Jane Shepard, Hero of Elysium, Savior of the Citadel, and first human Spectre of the Citadel Council, raises an eyebrow at him beneath strands of short red hair. "Do I know you?" she asks, and there is a faint sincerity to her voice, as if he could tell her yes and she might believe him.

"No," he admits, too thrilled by her celebrity to be unnerved by the assault rifle strapped to her back or the furious quarian standing next to her. "But I know you. Even a senile hanar would remember the human who fought off the geth." He notes that Shepard smiles when he says _senile hanar_ , and so he continues. "I thought you were dead," he tells her.

The smile wanes away and Shepard runs a hand through her hair, looking back toward the door uneasily. "Yeah, I've been getting that a lot lately."

Marab falters ever so slightly; he has perhaps said the wrong thing to her. He waves his hand toward the omni-tool display on the wall. "Please, look around the store," he offers. "It's a pleasure to have you in here."

Shepard looks up at him again, her smile returning. "Actually, a volus was in here not too long ago. Did he drop a credit chit?"

"Oh!" Marab dives down beneath the counter, pulling at the drawer to retrieve the chit, holding it up with one hand. "He bought some environmental system drivers, and then left without it. If you see him, tell him I have it behind the counter."

The quarian trembles with umbrage, her fists clenching angrily at the sight of it. "That racist little bosh'tet!"

Shepard hushes her, offering Marab a quick note of thanks, and then they both turn to leave.

"Not a problem! Have a good day!" Marab calls out. He exhales, watching her go, enjoying what will perhaps be the only exciting thing to happen to him that day. He bobs his head happily, moving to the other end of the counter, and his eyes are bright when he looks at his fellow shopkeeper. "Commander Shepard was just in here," he declares conversationally.

"Yeah, I heard you," Derek responds. "Hell, I think the guys over at the shipping warehouse heard you."

An asari and an elcor browsing for astrographic software have stopped to watch the exchange, and Marab feels faintly embarrassed at the sudden attention when so many eyes pause to stare at him. The asari lets out a giggle, and Derek shakes his head. "You've got to be a little smoother in the future."

"What?" Marab asks.

The asari smiles. "I think it's cute," she tells him very kindly.

"Wait, what are you all talking about?"

"Your big celebrity crush," the human clerk informs him helpfully. "You were absolutely reverent over there."

Marab's mouth drops open in surprise. "No I wasn't," he insists. "I was offering her helpful customer service." His eyes flicker between the faces of the trio staring at him, and he places his hands on the counter, insistently gazing at each one of them to drive home his point. "Look, if I sent her a contract nothing would happen. Even I know humans don't lay eggs."

"You could just ask her out on a date. I went on a date with a salarian once," the asari recalls fondly, turning to hush the elcor when the large creature shifts in agitation. "It was a long time ago, though. He dumped me the very next day."

Marab blinks, removing his hands from the counter. "Why did he dump you?"

"I don't really know. He didn't stay to tell me."

The elcor finally speaks up, his face wiggling impatiently. "Emphatically, because he was an idiot."

Marab nods in agreement, crossing his arms thoughtfully. "Salarians don't have the hormones that other species do," he tells the asari, his tone quiet with apology. He mulls over the question, losing himself in his own thoughts. "I still wouldn't dump Shepard, though," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "Who dumps Commander Shepard? She's amazing."

The elcor flutters his mouth. "Speculatively, those with a death wish."

The human clerk waggles his eyebrows at the asari, who giggles again, and he leans toward her over the counter. "Marab here has a Commander Shepard VI on his omni-tool. Do you want to see it?"

Marab blusters incredulously, his eyelids retracting into a wide stare of embarrassment. "That was free with a software upgrade!" he says, balking away from them all. He wrings his hands a single time, blinking furiously. "It's not even very accurate," he continues. "Shepard is way more impressive in real life. You saw her. She's the only reason the Citadel is still operational. She's-"

The elcor interrupts him slowly. "Helpfully, amazing?"

Marab groans loudly and turns away from them all, retreating to his own counter at the other end of the shop. He continues to blink, tapping his hands on the counter, attempting to banish the embarrassment away. He inwardly chides himself whenever his eyelids self consciously retract, and he tries to distract himself by checking the store's catalogue for interface for errors.

"She could have stolen it!" a volus yells outside. A familiar voice answers immediately, admonishing him at equal volume.

Any thoughts about the catalogue interface scatter away. Marab vaults over the counter as the yelling continues, followed by Derek and then the two customers, and they poke their heads outside of the shop's door curiously. Kian from Sirta Foundation has done the same, her mouth parted in surprise.

"Are you two serious?!" Commander Shepard roars to a C-Sec officer in the plaza, grabbing the man by his shirt collar and dragging him away from a young quarian pilgrim. "She gets harassed and insulted by that guy, and you throw in a threat to _arrest her for vagrancy_?!"

The C-Sec officer waves his data pad angrily, his feet dangling helplessly when Shepard lifts him into the air. "How about if I run you in for obstruction of justice?!"

"You think you're going to run in a Council Spectre?!"

"Son of a..."

Marab clutches at the door frame very tightly, his eyes wide as the scene continues, a growing sense of excitement surging within his chest. Commander Shepard is a hurricane of red hair and military confidence, and when the C-Sec officer runs off she sets her remaining wrath on the volus, who stomps indignantly and uselessly at her. Marab leans farther forward, engrossed.

He exhales when it is all over, disappointed that she does not return to the shop that day. Two years ago the entire population of the Citadel had been informed by an excess of news broadcasts that she was spaced over Alchera, dying heroically in a fight against a group of remaining geth near the Amada system. It was big news at the time, particularly with the damaged Wards still recovering from the initial invasion that she drove back. Marab can still recall the overwhelming nausea that rose in the pit of his stomach when the ground shuddered and the arms of the Citadel closed.

He dreams of it at night, tossing and muttering, his destroyed apartment in Kithoi Ward burnt into his mind.

Marab sweeps the shop in the evening, tired from selling upgrades and astrographic charts, and he thinks about the way the dim neon lights of Zakera reflected momentarily vivid on Shepard's black N7 armor. The broom halts whenever he looks up at the ceiling, smiling and musing quietly at the memory of her. The drell no longer chants, but his voice still lilts softly through Marab's consciousness.

 _Drala'fa, drala'fa_.

The ringing bells drift faintly whenever she returns.


End file.
